


In Mourning

by Amledo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), The Incredible Hulk (2008), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Group Cuddling, Sadness, broken Avengers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amledo/pseuds/Amledo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The group deals with the pain of losing one of their own.  Sad, but with a hopeful twist at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He sat alone in the small tile-floored kitchen, the room cast in the odd shadowed light of a single fluorescent bulb humming above an empty sink where the tap stood dripping repetitively in a steady plink, plink, plink. The dishes from dinner that night stood in the drying rack, cheap glassware that had lasted for ages, chipped and clouded and scratched as it was. There was still a sponge sitting half-forgotten on the side of the sink, likely still damp and stinking of their meals over the past week; he made a note to toss the sad green and yellow thing out.

With a small contemplative smile he splayed his fingers over the careworn surface of their kitchen table. It was decades old and his fingers snagged on dents and minute cuts, places where the varnish had worn away in the shapes of plates and glasses, the shapes of fingertips run in familiar patterns. After all that time it only had a slight wobble, which they had corrected with a dish cloth and never worried about again.

Spreading his fingers wide, he pressed his hand firmly against the old oak and imagined that he could feel the warmth of a thousand shared meals and the press of forearms and palms, the occasional pillowed head next to a fresh cup of coffee. In his other hand he twirled a small knife between his fingers, unerringly it twisted about, his tendons seemed accustomed to an act that they had never once performed simply because he had observed it so many times. The blade was hers it was perfectly balanced so that even a novice might feel confident using it and a professional would never fail to strike accurately. Dimly, as with the table, he imagined that he could feel the warmth of her fingers wrapped around it and somehow, that comforted him.

For a moment he considered the play of the light over the blade and the knife halted its movement in his hand. With grim finality he drew a deep breath and plunged the weapon into the center of the table, leaving it where it had found purchase to stand of its own accord. He focused on it, letting the blue walls and oak cabinets blur in his peripheral vision until he could see nothing but the shining silver and black of the knife and the warm wood of the table. It was no substitute, it would never replace the person that had carried it and it would never fill the chair that sat two spaces from his own, which on principle, they would leave exactly where it stood.

The knife, like a monument, an obelisk, a testament to all that they had lost, was as cold and silent as the fiery woman that it represented. His heart would have torn itself from his chest in that next moment were it not for the warm hand that clasped his shoulder, resting there, giving comfort in the sheer weight and warmth of it. A stuttering breath flooded his lungs and he dropped his head into his hands, tears dripping between clutching fingers. He didn't try to stop them.

They were like that for a long time, one taking comfort that he knew the other didn't truly have to offer and the other giving it because he didn't know what else he could do. They were all of them broken. Their hearts would not beat properly, the air tasted of misery, and their minds were haunted by a thousand gestures, smiles, laughs, fights, jokes and more, all lingering like ghosts.

When he had mastered himself, he rose to his feet, staring for a moment longer at the knife that stood alone before tearing his eyes away and focusing instead on the checkered tiles beneath his feet. They were as scuffed and chipped as the dishware, as the table, as the team, broken down by old age but still standing up to the work that they were required to do.

"She is gone," he acknowledge at last, voice thick with tears and regret and that nagging sensation of emptiness. He lifted his head at last and met brown eyes that had once been warm and full of laughter even when they were mocking and cold to most. Some shade of grey had dulled them; sorrow had taken away their depth and left them flat and lifeless, a personal monument to sorrow.

"Yeah. Yeah, she is," the other said softly, a thick swallow against tears made his Adam's apple bob beneath unshaven skin. The same warm tanned hand that had laid itself so comfortingly on his shoulder shifted and grasped his own pale digits, squeezing with a reassurance that neither of them understood.

"You should be asleep," he said at last, wrapping his fingers more tightly around that offered hand and holding on as suddenly the ticking of the wooden and faux golden clock on the wall began to sound like thunder.

"So should you, and the rest of them. But that isn't going to happen. Come on. You shouldn't be alone," the other said, raking his free hand through unkempt black curls in a nervous gesture.

"Tony…they don't…"

"They need their Captain. You should know that Steve; we all still need you," Tony whispered, words and gestures all interrupted and made uncharacteristic by grief and pain and sorrow and loss. At the moment they each made a poor facsimile of themselves and they all knew it, accepted it and understood that eventually they would recover.

"I can't even look at me," Steve admitted and was not shocked to find that his voice was weak, his words seeming wrapped in self-loathing.

"None of us can look at ourselves either," Tony said and tugged Steve with him into the dark wood paneled hallway, coat hooks on the right hand side, overly plush beige carpeting beneath their bare feet. Her room was the first one on the left, close to the kitchen because she had always wanted to be the first one to smell the morning coffee. The door didn't hang properly on the hinges because she had closed it on so many feet over the years. Inside the room was still hers, and down to the last crooked seemingly miscellaneous teddy bear that one of them had given her as a gag gift, it would never change.

Their feet carried them silently past the bathroom which was on the right and where her toothbrush was still in the cup with all of theirs. Her hairbrush was still on the counter, neatly aligned with the edge because she had made a groove with it over time, smacking it down in the same place day after day.

Next on the left was a pantry, in which several boxes of her favorite soda and energy bars could be found. He could hear their second fridge humming away and the dryer making gentle tapping noises every time the button on someone's jeans struck the drum.

The next room, on the left again, was a guest room, used frequently by friends and teammates when they stopped by after missions or before. It was empty. They had, as a group, asked for space and privacy, there would be no body filling that bed for a very long time.

His room was on the right, the last one before the stairs, but he didn't dare go into the dark by himself and in the end he didn't have to. Tony led him on, to where the hallway emptied out into the living room. There was one light on in the corner, yellow light diffusing through an ages old shade that had darkened over the years. The furniture, two couches, both were green, a loveseat in blue, two arm chairs in red, and an ottoman in an obtrusive golden color had been pushed to the edges of the room, butting up against wood paneling without much of a care. Steve trailed his fingers over the worn suede of the closest couch and considered the mass of blankets and pillows and bodies that had piled itself upon the beige carpeting.

The television was on but muted and its blue glow shown over the others, their eyes all trained on him, some still with tears shining on their cheeks. He met all of them in turn, Clint looking absolutely empty and destroyed lie in the middle, on his back, watching Steve without much emotion that wasn't already burning away at his mind. Bruce, eyes perpetually half green ever since they lost her, had one arm wrapped limply around Clint's middle, lying on his side to accommodate the gesture, the only comfort that he could offer in his own grief. Next to Bruce lay Thor, on his stomach, reaching across Bruce to rest his hand on Clint's upper arm.

With a gentle shove Tony pushed him into the blanket and pillow set that had been stolen from his own dark room and he lay silently beside Clint, mirroring Bruce's position and hearing Clint sigh softly. Tony's arm soon draped over him and another hand came to rest on Clint's arm. The archer swallowed thickly and tears bled from the corners of his eyes; Bruce and Steve reached out simultaneously and wiped them away.

For a moment Steve considered the wetness on his fingers and then he hugged Clint once again, his own sorrow seeming insurmountably small when compared to someone who had as good as lost his twin sister. And so he lay there, giving what strength he possessed to the man he was holding and drawing more from the closeness of the group. Eventually they all fell asleep that way.

Six thousand miles away, Natasha Romanov ran a finger over a monitor, tears in her eyes as she stared at the snowy black and white video feed. They would heal eventually, and begin to operate without her, and they would be all the safer for it. She brushed a tear from her cheek and crushed the flash drive that she had used to access the feed.


	2. Hope like the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still mired in the despair over the loss of their comrade, the Avengers are not prepared for the news that Loki would share with them.

The morning had dawned cold and grey, the light of dawn barely an afterthought, a fine mist of rain falling steadily and trapping the fog closer to the ground. It would not dissipate until somewhere around lunch and perhaps not even then. Not that any of them much cared whether or not it went away or swallowed the house whole and erased them from the world.  
The lights in the kitchen, three round fluorescent fixtures spaced in a jaunty triangle on the blue painted ceiling hummed with the effort of chasing away the gloom, but even they seemed dimmer than normal. Between the world outside and the moods within, the tiny lights could simply not overcome the darkness and the need for all things bright to be banished to the far corners and kept out of mind.   
The team was still suffering and perhaps the weather could have been attributed to Thor, had anyone really had the heart to tell him to change it, the sun might have been allowed to grace the sky. But she had been gone for a week and a half, eleven days that they had watched her empty seat and missed her sarcastic smiles and heard her voice from a far room. There had been a cold, clinical explanation of her death, a small, professional service, no casket, and no urn, just a pair of lethal wrist bands, two pistols and one knife to represent the woman that had worn them. The other knife was not something that the team was prepared to give up.  
Steve’s fingers were wrapped around a mug of coffee, clutching it nearly tight enough to shatter it but unable to bring himself to destroy the mug that had been given to him the day that he had joined the team. It was what they had lovingly called ‘Tony Stark size’ and was rather gaudy when he thought about it, the bright American flag blue base coat and a white starry foreground, the handle done in red and white stripes. Thanks to an incident at the sink when she had tickled Clint’s ribs as he scrubbed at the coffee stain within, the cup had dropped and smacked into the side of the drying rack, taking a chip out of the rim. He had kept it anyway, the small chip with its jagged edge brushed against his cheek each time he took a sip and now reminded him of her fingernails pinching his cheeks anytime he got too ‘40’s’on her.  
The rest of the team, and that term had come to include Coulson, were seated around the table, all of them a replica of Steve’s pose, heads down, hands clutching mugs for dear life, contemplating breaking them but restraining themselves. Every single one of them was mindful of the empty chair between Clint and Coulson and the knife that still stood in the center of the table, the only tombstone that their fallen comrade was ever going to get.  
Phil had been sent to stay with them after the first three days to act as a grief counselor, but he had been in no shape to do so and had wound up on the living room floor with the rest of them, curled between Clint and Bruce, finally allowing himself to cry. Thy simply had not allowed him to leave since, claiming to need him and protecting him from Fury, the man unfazed by anything.  
There was the sound of a key in the lock on the kitchen door, the grating scraping sound of someone unused to the odd positioning of the lock itself fumbling with the key. They all allowed themselves a moment to glance at the pale beige door, but the frosted glass window, further obscured by a gauzy curtain (used one time too many as an impromptu shopping list) gave nothing away. They could see the shape of someone in a hooded coat, but nothing more, and really that didn’t matter because they already knew that the one person they missed most would not be coming home to them.  
Steve riveted his gaze on the coffee mug, staring at the knife reflected in the surface of the liquid and frowning hard as he willed it to have called its owner home. No such thing would come to pass and he knew it, but it still left a hollow ache in his chest that was somehow noticeable enough to earn him a quick wrist-squeeze from Tony next to him.  
Loki moved as silently as he could, hanging his coat on the rack in the hall in the new spot that had been added for it just a few months prior, it was not so wet that it would drip overly much on the carpet though a few splotches of beige were darkening to brown. He carried three white plastic bags in his right hand as he stuffed his keys back into his pocket with his right; all of the bags wore the same logo and the same bold green print that advertised the neighborhood bakery. Carefully, so as to avoid the knife, which he granted the same deference as the rest of them because she had mattered to him as well; he placed the bags on the table one by one. They obviously contained white paper boxes and had likely only been bagged up because of the rain. It seemed that Loki had gone a step further to protect them from the rain, the bags only had a few drips on them and it was likely that the slender man in the grey hoodie and baggy blue jeans had kept them under his coat.  
He stood uncomfortably by the table, the guest chair taken up by Phil and the only other being the empty one between Phil and Clint, but he knew to whom it had belonged. Instead of moving to take it, as he would have when she was alive (earning a prompt pummeling from the woman herself) he flicked up his sleeve and slid his thumb along a silver bracelet that gleamed too brightly for the gloom of the kitchen. With a swift motion he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and then with a snap made a sweeping gesture toward the floor. A chair appeared in the space between Thor and Tony and he slid into it silently, well aware of the fact that he had not been focused enough to make it match the set, his chair was pine to the oak of all the others. The rest of the group stared silently until Clint raised his voice to speak.  
“Thank you,” he swallowed, Loki had only been by after dinner and would sleep on the outside of the pile, clinging to Thor and leaving before they woke. With a shaking hand, Clint reached across the table and pressed his fingers to Loki’s pale hand. “I, Clint Barton of the Avengers have witnessed the magic used by Loki, son of Laufey and deem it necessary,” Cling whispered, a line that they had all gotten used to speaking in the past. Loki sagged as the pressure that had begun to build in his chest deflated and left him in peace. He forced a smile and replaced his sleeve, gesturing lamely to the bags as he did so.  
“I brought breakfast,” he admitted softly and Thor granted him a reassuring pat of the hand before removing the first of the boxes from the bag nearest to him. He carefully opened it to reveal an assortment of muffins and placed it atop the bag it had come in. The other two boxes were opened shortly, revealing doughnuts in one and bagels with little cups of butter, jam, and cream cheese in the other. Standard breakfast fare for the Avengers really.  
Clint was half-way through smearing cream cheese on an onion bagel, not because he liked it but because she would have, when his nose twitched and hard grey-blue eyes fixed on Loki. His chair scraped noisily, the back left leg catching in a chip that had been taken out of the tile and failing over with a clatter. As quick as lightning he grabbed Loki’s wrist and forced the sleeve of the hoodie up the other man’s arm. The action revealed a poorly bandaged wound on Loki’s forearm that was still glistening red and seemed to be etching itself deeper into the flesh as he stared. Loki’s green eyes remained fixed on the table, his face had gone a shade paler than normal; everyone present knew the punishment for unjustified magic.  
“This wasn’t going to wait long enough for Thor to see to it in private, and you knew I’d smell it. Tell me,” Clint whispered and it would have been dangerous were it not for the desperation in his voice. Loki swallowed heavily and did not fight against the bruising grip that restrained his arm and restricted blood flow to the wound. It was easily the most life that Clint had shown all week and the rest of the team were stunned into silence.  
“I wanted to do a scrying spell…it was specific so it was harder…but…she’s alive,” Loki said and clenched his fingers causing a line of blood to spill down his arm, toward the fabric of his hoodie.  
“I, Phil Coulson of SHIELD have heard the words of Loki, son of Laufey and deem the magic to have been necessary,” Phil said, having stood and placed his fingers against the wound for good measure, not knowing if Odin would forgive such a lapse. The wound did not heal instantly, but the blood did stop and Loki’s free hand was promptly pressed against his face.  
“Now explain,” Clint said softly, still not letting go of Loki’s arm though his grip seemed to have slackened. Loki finally met Clint’s eyes and saw that they were broken but oh so hopeful the message was clear ‘please, just this once, no cruel tricks’ and the expression stung Loki to the heart.  
“She is alive, whole, unharmed. She wished you to believe her dead rather than a traitor. Right now she is working for Hydra, I do not know the details, I only know that she is still aligned with SHIELD and that her heart is with the Avengers,” Loki said and Clint’s entire body went slack, he dropped to his knees and hugged Loki around the middle so tightly that Thor and Phil had to intervene. For a long moment they could not tell what sound Clint was making, thinking that it would be crying, that was until his laughter rose to hysterical heights.  
Loki gave the archer a clumsy pat on the head smiling softly as the darkness that pervaded the house seemed to recede; the weather beyond the window also seemed to clear. A breath of life moved through the Avengers and soon laughter lit up the kitchen.  
“She’s alive,” Steve’s voice trembled with laughing and Tony smiled for the first time in days. There was a collective sigh of relief and Bruce’s eyes returned to normal. The bakery treats were consumed with great gusto after that announcement.

Can Clear Away Clouds


End file.
